


A Compromise

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Napoleon feels guilty and tries to distract Illya with something...distracting. But he too gets distracted along the way.





	

“You’re ten minutes late.” 

Illya is perched in the hallway of Napoleon’s apartment and only shrugs as he listens to Napoleon’s slight grumbling. The American’s lips are downturned, eyebrows knitted together, portraying an over exaggerated stance at Illya’s apparent failure at punctuality. Illya wanted to play along with Napoleon’s act, but when Napoleon grabs him by the shoulders to quickly tug him inside, Illya dismisses the idea at once and kisses him hard on the mouth instead.

“Waverly held me back, wanted to discuss about our next assignment to Prague. I can’t say no to him, can I?” Illya whispers against Napoleon’s lips and before Napoleon has had time to think of a reply, the inch between them disappears into nothing again and all he can think about is how absolutely wonderful Illya’s lips feel against his. He lets his fingers roam freely through Illya’s hair and across his back, feeling those arms wrap closer around him as Illya kneads the tight muscles around his shoulder blades. The Russian soon finds a pressure-point and when pressing his fingers lightly against it, a soft, defeated sound escapes from the back of Napoleon’s throat. 

Illya revels in the feeling of Napoleon surrendering totally in his embrace and pulls him even closer, pressing his fingers harder against the painful points in his back. He can feel Napoleon choking on a sob as his hand kneads a particularly sore spot at the base of his neck. Their lips part and he leans his forehead against Napoleon’s.

“You are stiff,” he mutters as his hands rub in gentle circles. Napoleon snorts and smirks cheekily.

“Oh, I’m stiff all right. But it’s not my shoulders that need your attention.”

Illya just rolls his eyes. “Cowboy, you know what I mean. You injured your shoulder a few weeks back. It is still hurting you, yes?”

“And you think you can make it better?” Napoleon says as he pulls away slightly.

Illya cannot help but smile at the accusing tone in Napoleon’s voice, looks into his blue eyes, that speck of brown on his left one, a constant distraction to the Russian he can never deny. _And there goes the lovesick teenager in him again_ , Illya mentally curses himself.

“If I am not a competent spy, maybe I make a great masseur,” he answers without thought and Napoleon raises an eyebrow at that. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but he remains quiet and Illya’s sure he sees a hint of jealousy in the American’s eyes. The idea of Illya’s hands on anyone else but him doesn’t sit well with the dark haired man and Illya relishes the fact he’s able to make Napoleon feel that way. 

“Have you?” Napoleon asks. He doesn’t quite finish his question, leaves it hanging, but Illya suspects he knows what is on Napoleon’s mind. 

“Have I massaged anyone?”

Napoleon exhales sharply, clearly exasperated. “Well? Have you? Because why else would you even have the idea of becoming a masseur if you haven’t?”

Illya’s suspicion is true. Napoleon is _indeed_ jealous. Not able to hide his delight, Illya grins widely which only annoys Napoleon further. But before the silly argument could get out of hand, Illya pulls Napoleon gently, motioning him to follow his lead. 

“You are foolish, Cowboy. Of course, the answer is no. I was only joking.”

Illya shakes his head at the dumbstruck look on Napoleon’s face as they make their way towards Napoleon’s bedroom. Once there, Napoleon stops Illya before he could close the door behind them, puts a firm hand on his partner’s chest.

“You know, Peril, I don’t like to share what is mine.”

“Neither do I,” Illya growls, a stern reminder to Napoleon that he will never be all right with that idea if ever the tables were turned. 

“So we can safely say there’s no arguing to that,” Napoleon concludes, and he finally lets Illya lower them both onto his king-sized bed.

Their eyes never leave each other and a heavy silence falls around them as Illya settles on top of Napoleon, arms on either side of his head. They are quiet, save for their mingled breathing and the soft, rustling noises of fabric against fabric as their chests rise against the other. Napoleon watches Illya intently as he hovers a few inches above him, his eyes intense and heated and his cheeks slightly flushed. It is so comfortable, lying there, existing, watching Illya watching him, feeling like there is no such thing as time. In their profession, whatever moment they have to themselves, that they could spend together, is precious.

Suddenly, without warning, Illya pushes himself up and pulls Napoleon into a sitting position before unbuttoning his shirt for him, sliding it off his shoulders. Napoleon merely looks at him quizzically, slightly annoyed that Illya had to kill the very pleasant mood they were in.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Illya just shakes his head.

“Lie back down and turn around. I’m going to give you a massage. Your sore back needs it,” Illya says and pulls his own turtleneck shirt over his head for good measure. Napoleon can’t say no, because Illya is his weakness, so he does as he is told, a little smile gracing his handsome features as he lies back down and rolls around, resting his head on his folded arms.

“So Peril, when and where did you learn to do this?” he hums as Ilya straddles him, his cool hands moving slowly up his back.

“Never learned it,” Illya answers simply. His hands move to Napoleon’s shoulders, kneading them as gentle as he could while adding more pressure as he goes along. He feels Napoleon tensing, letting out deep long breaths, obviously forcing himself to relax to his touches.

“So I guess I have no idea what I’ll be going through. You might just be torturing me, making my injury worse, and I won’t even know it.”

Illya huffs. “Stop talking.”

Napoleon doesn’t say a thing this time and only lets Illya’s hands move down his spine, then presses at his lower back for added effect. Illya leans forward a bit and he can see Napoleon’s lips move into a smile as he works his way across the muscles, a comfortable silence settling between them. 

Ten minutes later, Napoleon is purring.

“So far, it’s not too bad,” he mutters. His right arm feels slightly numb from tingling waves of the bitter-sweet torture his shoulder has endured. It feels like he could not have moved his fingers if he wanted to, but right now he is not about to go anywhere at all.

“Only not bad?” Illya feigns hurt, pressing his hand down a little harder than first intended as a punishment for Napoleon’s comment and Napoleon hisses sharply in reply.

“Excuse me, but I didn’t want to inflate your ego anymore,” he grins and Illya scratches at a sore point in answer, “plus, I’m trying to save you from my own massages, because I'm terrible at this stuff,” he tries to explain as Illya’s hands starts working on his other shoulder, the same numbing sensation flowing down into the left arm.

“How is your insulting my great massage going to save you from that?” Illya asks, his hand moving in small circles, pushing lightly under the shoulder blade before running up to the nape of Napoleon’s neck and back down.

“Because…” Napoleon does not really know what to say because Illya’s hands are working wonders at his neck and shoulders and he has to visibly pull himself together to not shudder violently. “Because... ah, fuck, I don’t know,” he sighs contently, eyes fluttering shut, as Illya leans down and kisses the nape of his neck and the next second, whispers words in his ear, sending sparks flying to every nerve ending in his body.

“You are a terrible liar, Cowboy. I think you are enjoying this too much. Am I right?” 

Napoleon merely smiles happily, eyes remaining closed as he feels Illya’s soft kisses, shudders when Illya moves to the corner of his mouth, forces himself not to react.

“Stop teasing,” he mock grumbles. Illya ignores him, starts placing small kisses at the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, his hands now moving down his spine, rubbing his lower back and Napoleon feels himself getting more aroused with each passing second. Those hands are goddamn magical. 

He hums appreciatively and is about to flutter off to dreamland when Illya moves to his side, hands floating gently over his boxers and down his thighs to the back of his knees. He had not realised that his legs are so sore and worn out as well and draws a sharp breath as Illya finds some very painful spots.

“Damn, that hurts,” he breathes after a minute of pretty damn unbearable pain.

“Sorry, Cowboy,” Illya chuckles with a hint of sarcasm and proceeds to slide his hands up Napoleon’s thighs, paying close attention to his reaction. The light touch has Napoleon shivering in no time and he tries hard not to move, knowing too well what effect _any_ kind of friction will have on him.

Illya proceeds to spread his legs a little, continuing his ministrations as if it was the most natural thing in the world and Napoleon curses inwardly at how composed Illya seems when he himself is not so calm anymore. At least not on the inside. He has to clench his eyes tightly when Illya straddles him again, hands moving up his spine, then across his shoulders, up and down his arms before covering his hands, their fingers entwining. The Russian’s chest is flat against his back and Napoleon can almost feel the racing pulse of Illya’s heart as if it was his own. Or perhaps it is. 

Napoleon isn’t so sure anymore.

“Illya…” he breathes as he feels soft lips grace his neck again, the ache in his chest almost robbing him off air.

“Yes?” lllya answers, voice hoarse, and Napoleon’s breath hitches. He feels like burying his face in the pillows, trying to gain some control over himself, but he remains still, his head tilted towards the right and he can see Illya at the corner of his eyes.

“It feels good,” is all he manages. Illya, feeling bold, presses himself closer. Napoleon feels Illya’s growing interest against his back and he cannot stop the shiver that runs through him. 

Illya continues to lap at his neck, his chin, his shoulder, kissing softly beneath his ear, nudging gently at the lobe with his nose and Napoleon is sure he is going to faint from the perfectness of it all as hard, shocking waves of pleasure surge through him. If this is Heaven, he will gladly go at any time. 

_Where has this been all my life?_ , he wonders but is pulled sharply back to reality as Illya kisses at the corner of his mouth and moves to lie at his side again. Napoleon’s eyes flutter open and stare into a pair of blue ones, so beautiful, silently thanking whoever is up there for bringing Illya into his life.

He moves a hand to cup Illya’s face, slowly brushing his thumb in circles over his chin as he smiles at the soft look in his eyes. It is long since Napoleon has seen this. After so many assignments, gruelling missions, this is the first time they have some alone time together, and Napoleon cannot help but feel grateful.

“Hey,” he whispers, lips barely moving at all, not wanting to break the little bubble they are in. His hand moves to stroke Illya’s hair as he whispers, “you okay?”

“I am, Cowboy.”

Napoleon then professes the thing that has been bothering him.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he pulls Illya closer, their foreheads touching.

“Why?”

“Because I had you worried. In Brussels. Got me in trouble and you and Gaby had to bail me out again.”

“I’ll do it every time if I have to,” Illya breathes and a heavy, comfortable silence engulfs them. Breaths mingling, noses brushing slightly, senses heightened yet drugged, every nerve at the ready. Napoleon nudges a bit closer, searchingly, silently asking if it’s what Illya wants. 

As their bodies touch pretty much everywhere, Illya exhales and Napoleon feels his last remnants of self-control evaporate with the feeling of hot air flowing against his face. He draws a shuddery breath before their lips meet; soft and light, the touch tender but sending fireworks through him all the same. When Illya’s tongue licks his lips, Napoleon deepens the kiss. Slowly, timidly, pulse frantic and rushed through his veins, like it’s their first time exploring the other. They revel in the feeling of tongues stroking longingly against each other, drawing low, deep moans of pure sensual pleasure, leaving them dizzy and short of breath. 

Illya’s arm moves slowly down Napoleon’s back to hold around his waist before he presses against him, pulls Napoleon even closer and the kiss grows more heated, more desperate, needier, and Napoleon moans as the hand runs briefly over his somewhat present bulge, his pulse and breath speeding up more than he thought possible. 

“Peril…”

Illya does not need asking twice because Napoleon’s reactions speak for itself. He flips them around, settling on top of him as his tongue strokes the American’s urgently yet gentle, softly yet firm. Napoleon lets himself sink back into the bed, drowning in the sensations flooding through him. He hums into Illya’s mouth, feels Illya’s hand cover him through the thin cotton of his boxers, stroking him expertly. Napoleon groans and that delicious sound has Illya abandoning Napoleon’s lips at once. He quickly attacks his neck, then his jawline, breaths heavy and moist in his ear and his tongue trails a wet pattern from his collarbone and back up as the movements of his hand grows more urgent.

“Peril, _god_.” 

Napoleon moans as Illya grinds against him, desperately seeking any kind of friction. Illya leans in to kiss him again and Napoleon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as the hand at his groin grows ever more demanding and he really does not know what he will do if Illya doesn’t stop soon. Passing out from lack of oxygen is certainly high up on the list, perhaps. His wandering mind is cut short, gasps loudly when Illya moves under the waistband, bare flesh against bare flesh, the sensation causing small fireworks to go off behind his eyelids.

“Christ, Illya,” he keens, wrenches his lips away for air, blinking rapidly as he stares into nothing. Illya kisses his way down his neck again, over his collarbone, across his chest, sucks and licks at his nipples then down over his trained torso, tracing his defined muscles, nipping at scars with his skillful teeth, tongue and lips. Napoleon trembles and rakes a hand through his dark hair, knowing fully well where this is going, his mind reeling at the thought.

“So beautiful,” Napoleon hears Illya’s strangled whisper against his skin, the heated voice causing him to shiver violently in anticipation. He looks down for a moment to see Illya pulling off his boxers. His eyes flutter shut again and he tries to concentrate on slow breaths, but fuck, it surely is easier said than done.

“You wouldn’t want to, ah, finish too early, I’m guessing?” Illya asks, and Napoleon really wants to throw something at Illya, because he’s cruel, teasing him and then saying those words. But he doesn’t get to do anything because Illya’s hand is already wrapped around his cock and Napoleon groans at the warm pressure, forgetting everything about time and place. He purrs contently as Illya works his wonders, his breath growing ragged, chest rising and falling irregularly and he really isn’t sure how much longer he can keep this up. Whatever the hell happened to stamina?

Illya licks wet traces across his torso, tongue dipping into his belly button, before moving a bit lower. His hand never stops its ministrations and Napoleon is convinced he has never been so damn hard in his life. Illya’s talented hand is wreaking total havoc in his mind and body and he never wants this to end, yet he knows he won’t last much longer. He grabs at the sheets, trying hard not to rip them to shreds as he feels that ever so familiar heat in the pit of his stomach flare at every move Illya makes. 

“Illya, if you don’t stop,” he warns, but the sharp gasp leaving his throat cuts him off effectively. Illya’s tongue is now gracing the tip of his throbbing length, sending mighty shivers through his body.

As Illya takes him in, the feeling of moist hotness against silky hardness has Napoleon throwing his head back into the pillows, moaning Illya’s name over and over. Small droplets of sweat trails down the side of his flushed face, his mind clouded over ages ago. 

The swirling tongue and lightly scraping teeth send Napoleon’s mind spinning dangerously fast and he moans, arching his back high above the bed as he is pushed over the edge in no time. Napoleon is sure he blacks out for a moment or three but is brought back to planet Earth by Illya’s lips on his and he feels his face heat up as he tastes himself. Their tongues move hungrily against each other before Illya pulls away, his eyes watching Napoleon intently, drinking in every detail.

“God, but you’ve got a skilled tongue,” is all Napoleon could manage, his voice raspy. Illya smiles, kisses his cheek softly, lips lingering.

“Better than my massages?” Illya teases, peering down at Napoleon, noticing how his flushed, sweaty face gleams in the soft light from the lamp in the corner.

Napoleon reaches up around his neck and pulls him in for another heated kiss, licking and sucking at his lips before brutally claiming his mouth, tongues battling for dominion. Illya gives up quickly as Napoleon’s hand reaches down to stroke him firmly and Illya falters at his touch, his cock hardening instantly, Napoleon’s obscene display of pleasure earlier being a rather decent foreplay.

“Cowboy,” Illya groans throatily as he moves to kiss at Napoleon’s neck, his breath heavy and raspy. He bites down hard when Napoleon reaches inside his pants, palming him gently. Illya thrusts, his movement desperate, because now he wants what Napoleon intends to give him. He ruts, and moans, not able to stop himself. 

“Napoleon,” he moans Napoleon’s name, and Napoleon’s hand moves faster.

Illya is having a hard time keeping his arms from giving in to the weight, especially when Napoleon runs his thumb over his head and cups him at the same time. Illya captures his lips desperately, nudging him on, and despite his embarrassment, he begs. Napoleon’s hand is torturous, and he continues tormenting Illya until he gasps into Napoleon’s mouth as he comes, hot and wet stickiness covering them both, their tongues never stopping their game. Not until Illya rolls over, landing flat on his back next to Napoleon as he tries to catch his breath, eyes fluttered close, swollen lips parted.

It takes a good few moments for Illya to come back down from his high and when he does, he turns to see Napoleon staring at him with an intense gaze. 

“That was…magnificent,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Napoleon, but Napoleon smiles nonetheless. 

“I don’t mind getting injured if we always get to do this.”

Illya scowls, and Napoleon knows the Russian isn’t happy at his words. He decides not to push the matter anymore. 

They remain quiet for a good while after that, breaths calming down, bodies cooling so much that they actually have to pull the discarded sheets up.

“So, we fly into Prague in two days time,” Napoleon says afterward, stroking away a few dark strands of hair from his forehead and Illya turns to face him.

“Back to work again for us, Cowboy.”

“But it’s not too bad, is it?” 

Illya doesn’t say anything, only nods and then kisses him hard.

After another round of scrumptious love making, they shower and get dressed and an hour later they sit down at the kitchen table, Napoleon with a cup of coffee and Illya sitting across him with a look the American cannot quite read.

“What is it, Peril?”

“You asked me to come over to your place urgently, you said you wanted to show me something?” Illya asks. Napoleon suddenly grins as if he had just remembered why he had asked Illya to come over to his apartment and gets up, disappearing from the kitchen before appearing again a minute later. 

Illya looks questioningly at him. “What is it?”

Napoleon hands him a small box. “I got this while you were with Gaby and Waverly this morning. There’s a small antique shop which just opened round the corner of this building. When I saw this through the window, I knew I had to get it for you.”

Illya quickly opens the box and his eyes widen a little at what he sees. In it is a miniature chess set, composed of a wooden chessboard and graphite pieces. Every single piece of the set is hand carved, and Illya could see the white pieces are painted with enamel. 

“Cowboy,” Illya murmurs as he looks at Napoleon again, frowning. “This is expensive.”

“But you like it, don’t you?” Napoleon asks, suddenly worried if he had somehow upset Illya. “I thought that you would.”

Illya just nods and is soon on his feet. He places Napoleon’s gift on the kitchen table and goes straight to the man in front of him before circling his waist with his arms. 

“You do not have to buy me gifts to get me to come over to your place.”

Napoleon chuckles. “Well, of course, I don’t. That wasn’t my real intention. I was just…”

Illya never lets him finish. He just kisses him and when he is done, leaving Napoleon breathless, they stand in silence for a second and then…

“You’re frustrating, Cowboy,” he growls, tips Napoleon’s chin up. “Next time, you do not need to distract me with gifts. Understand?”

“Distract you?” Napoleon asks, puzzled. 

“You want me to forgive you for making me worried. In Brussels. You got injured. And I got angry. Am I correct?”

_Damn, Illya had read him like a book._

Napoleon sighs and just nods. “You got me.”

Illya’s eyes immediately soften at his lover’s guilty look. Quick to reassure him, he whispers, “but I love the gift all the same.”

“Okay,” Napoleon smiles, a little bit relieved, and then he’s eyeing Illya with a serious look of his own. “And _you_ , you are not to get any idea of giving anyone else a massage after today. Those magical hands are for me alone. Understand?”

Illya rolls his eyes, tries to act annoyed when he’s actually pleased he’s got something over the American now. In the end, he kisses him hard and whispers like a truce, _‘it’s a deal.’_

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is just my excuse to write this no actual plot fic. Anyway, I Hope you enjoy it! Comments are Much loved!


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